


Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Community: lewis_challenge, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, Christmas is supposed to be a time for hope and joy, isn't it?!</p><p>Lots of seasonal romance/happiness/fun with just a touch of melancholy thrown in to balance all that sweetness!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Weeks Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/gifts).



> This was written for the recent Secret Santa over at [lewis-challenge.](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/) It was a gift for [Kat-Lair/MistressKat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat/), one of the lewis-challenge mods, so I felt particularly happy about being able to give her a story by way of a thank you for all the hard work she (and [pushkin666](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/pseuds/pushkin666/)) put in to encourage creativity within the fandom. We may be a tiny fandom, but the Secret Santa generated lots of fantastic new stories and other creative works, and was a lot of fun. 
> 
> Thanks to [Lindenharp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp/) for such helpful and encouraging beta services. Of course, all errors and eccentricities remain my own.
> 
> Warning for mention of grief in relation to a canonical character death.

Robbie is going through the dozen or so emails that have appeared in his in-box over the course of the morning while he and James were out in the rain, attempting to track down a potential witness to a nasty stabbing. Mostly the emails are notifications of changes to policy documents and flyers for training courses, but there’s one to all the DIs, from Innocent’s PA. He reads it and sighs.

“Sir?”

The Christmas duty rota just arrived.”

“Oh? The news not good?”

“Well. It’s what I expected. We’ve both just got Christmas Day off.”

James frowns. “That’s going to make getting up to Manchester difficult for you. What will you do? Make an early start and just stay for Christmas dinner?”

Robbie shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not going to go. It’s three hours each way minimum, assuming the weather and the roads are OK—last year the snow on the M6 was so bad it took me best part of five hours to get there. I’ve been up there the last three years—lucky really; I can’t expect to get a long break every Christmas. I’ve already warned our Lyn not to expect me this year. Anyway, she worries about me doing the long drive in winter weather, so it’s probably best if I stay at home.”

“You’re probably right. Shame though, not to see your family at Christmas.” James looks like he’s about to say something else, but nothing actually materialises, and he goes back to the forensics report he’s reading. 

Well, if he’s not going to volunteer anything (business as bloody usual!), it’s up to Robbie to ask, isn’t it?

“What about you, James? Will this mess up your Christmas plans?”

James doesn’t take his eyes off his work. “In a way. As you know, I usually help out at a homelessness shelter over Christmas.” 

James offers nothing further, so Robbie prompts him: “And this year?”

This time James looks up and gazes unblinkingly at his boss for a moment.

“No, I won’t be able to, sir. They won’t take volunteers for less than three days—it’s to do with health and safety training and insurance, apparently.”

Robbie nods, keeping his expression neutral. He knows he should admire James for helping out every year like that, but if he’s honest, he’d rather see him have a bit of fun.

“Any idea what you’ll do instead?”

James shakes his head. “Nothing much. Midnight mass, watch an old film or two. Eat mince pies. What about you?”

Robbie shrugs. “About the same, I expect. Less midnight mass, more pies, maybe.”

They go back to work, but Robbie finds his mind returning several times to their distinctly unfestive plans. By mid afternoon, the rain has really set in—he can hear it hammering down on the flat roof above the office ceiling. It’s so dark they’ve had the lights on in the office all day, making the whole place look yellowish and tired. Definitely not festive. He looks across at James—head down and working hard—frowning with concentration. 

“We could do something together. If you like?”

James gazes at him, looking a bit puzzled. “Sir?” 

“For Christmas. Cook a bit of dinner, maybe. How hard can it be to roast a turkey, for heaven’s sake?”

James smirks. “Have you ever cooked a Christmas dinner, sir? Turkey, roast potatoes, veg, gravy, bread sauce, the works?”

Robbie feels a bit embarrassed admitting it. “No, not really. I was just on dishes duty after Val had finished in the kitchen.”

James’ face breaks into what for him passes as a smile. “Well, you’re going to need my assistance then, by the sound of it, sir.”


	2. Three Weeks Before Christmas

“I think we should go to the pub one night this week and make our Christmas Day plans, sir.”

Robbie glances up from his computer screen, baffled. “Is planning really necessary? I thought we were gonna cook dinner, not send a rocket to Mars!”

Interestingly, James’ face instantly shifts into the careful blank he saves for moments of embarrassment. He turns his head a little to the right, so that he’s no longer looking directly at Robbie. “Yes, well, without a bit of forward planning you could end up on the day with a 20 pound turkey still frozen solid, which you’d then have to defrost in a hot bath. Which could result in food poisoning for all concerned.” 

To the untrained ear, James little speech would sound like a slightly patronising public information announcement. To Robbie, skilled detective and observer of sergeants, it’s clear that he’s just heard a major confession. It’s tempting to take the piss—God knows James has handed it to him on a plate, so to speak. But something stops him. His mind is supplying theories about where this mass poisoning might have happened—the most likely options are the seminary or the homelessness shelter; either way, a bit of a disaster. It’s so rare for James to show a glimpse of anything personal—however indirectly—to even hint at having messed up in such a spectacular way; to show that he is, in fact, as human as everyone else. It’s behaviour Robbie wants to encourage, not stamp on.

He smiles. “I see. Well, in that case, Sergeant, we’d better get some planning done.”

James nods his head back down to his work, the slightest hint of pink finding its way to his cheeks.

So that evening finds them in a cosy pub near Port Meadow. It’s fairly busy but they’ve managed to grab a small table near the log fire. They’ve both got a pint and their food is on the way. They’ve only been here ten minutes, but it’s sufficiently warm that they’ve both taken their suit jackets off, and Robbie’s rolled his sleeves up.

James takes a notepad out of his jacket pocket.

“You really are gonna organise me aren't you, Sergeant?”

“Someone has to, sir.”

 _Cheeky sod._ Robbie pulls an expression that on anyone else would be called a pout. “I’m quite capable of organising a perfectly adequate Christmas dinner, thank you very much.”

James smirks. “I never doubted it, sir. But, can I suggest we aim a little higher than perfectly adequate? If we put a bit of thought into it, we might even attain moderately palatable.”

Robbie has to chuckle. He salutes James with his pint. “Aye. Fair enough. Organise away, James.”

“OK. First things first. I assume we’re going to do this at your place? You’ve got more space—and my oven can be temperamental. The last time I tried doing a soufflé I ended up with something more akin to a cheesy sponge cake.”

Robbie laughs, not sure what he’s enjoying the most; the knowledge that James cooks soufflés, or the fact that James is feeling relaxed and comfortable enough to share another tale of culinary disaster, this time much more directly. Clearly the no piss-taking policy’s a good one; though God knows, it’s difficult to resist the temptation.

“Well, I can’t say that my oven is soufflé-tested, but I’m sure it’ll handle a turkey just fine.”

James nods. “So you’re sure you want turkey then?”

“Why, do you have a problem with turkey?”

“Turkey’s OK—I find it a bit bland—but I don’t mind it. But there are only two of us, and turkeys are big birds—we’ll be eating leftovers for weeks.”

He’s got a point. “What do you suggest instead?”

“I prefer red meat really. Beef, lamb—duck, if you want poultry.”

Robbie takes a swig of beer as he gives it some thought. “I had rib of beef at Laura’s once, a year or so back. That was good—really good. Maybe we could do that?”

James hesitates, ducks his head down in that tell-tale way of his when he’s got something uncomfortable to say.

Robbie can’t imagine what’s suddenly got to him. “What now?!”

“It won’t make you feel . . . uncomfortable . . . us cooking something that’ll remind you . . .”

 _For heaven’s sake!_ Robbie doesn’t even give James a chance to finish his sentence. “No! I see Laura at work all the time. We’re mates!”

“I know, sir. But, this is a bit more personal. A meal she cooked for you. I know it’s none of my business, but you were seeing her for a while, and now she’s seeing someone else, and . . .”

Robbie takes pity on him. “Look, if Laura and me were meant to be together, we’d have tried harder. We’re much better off as friends—and I’m glad to see her happy with someone.”

James, who looks like a weight has been lifted, grins. “Even though that someone is DI Peterson?” 

Robbie concedes the point. “Yeah, well. I didn’t say she’s got good taste, did I?! But, she seems happy with him, so what do I know?”

Their meals arrive, so there’s a couple of minutes of sorting out cutlery and adding seasoning. Robbie takes a first bite of his lamb casserole and then resumes the conversation. 

“What I’m saying is, I think I can manage to eat a bit of beef on Christmas Day without getting all maudlin!”

“OK then. Rib of beef it is. I assume you’ll want it well done, sir?” James is back in smirking git mode. 

Robbie glares at him. “And I assume that was a reference to my unsophisticated, northern, working class palate, Sergeant? I’ll have you know, I like my beef medium-rare.” Robbie mutters something else along the lines of “bloody public schoolboys with no respect for their superiors”, but there’s no heat in it. He knows James is just trying to wind him up.

“Apologies, sir.” James looks almost contrite, though it’s hard to be sure—something to do with the shape of his face.

They plan the rest of the dinner without significant incident, although Robbie—though flexible about what meat to have—is outraged when James suggests they forgo Christmas pudding in favour of some Spanish dessert that involves fruit soaked in wine. 

“I assume you’re just trying to get a rise out of me, Sergeant?!”

But James actually looks surprised (and amused) at the strength of Robbie’s horror. “Actually sir—no. That was just a happy side effect.” Robbie can hear the smirk, giving the lie to James’ neutral expression.

Robbie shakes his head in disbelief. “I expected you of all people to be a traditionalist about Christmas. The pudding is what Christmas Day is all about!” 

“As opposed to the Christ child? The three kings bearing gifts? ” James looks properly amused now.

“Well, all I’m saying is that if one of those kings had brought a decent pudding instead of frankincense or myrrh, life in the stable would have been a lot more pleasant!” 

And clearly there’s something about this image of a wise man handing over a pudding to Joseph and Mary that tickles James, because he turns away, but Robbie can see his shoulders shaking. There’s a couple of seconds where James goes very still—as if he’s holding his breath, and then he suddenly explodes with laughter, beer shooting out of his nose and mouth. While he attempts to get his laughing and coughing under control and to clean up the mess with his serviette, Robbie looks on happily—even if he’s trying not to take the mickey out of James so much at the moment, he can still enjoy the sight of him make a bit of an arse of himself, can’t he?

James manages to sort himself out eventually, their empty plates get cleared away and they sit nursing the remains of their pints, each lost in their own thoughts. After a while James breaks the silence. 

“Will you be having a Christmas tree, sir? Some decorations?”

Robbie can’t tell if James is winding him up or not. “Nah. Haven’t for years—not since Val . . . well, all that’s for kids really, isn’t it?”

James quickly agrees, apparently uncomfortable with having got him thinking about Val. But there’s something else there in James’ eyes, just as he looks down and starts studying the bottom of his glass again. It looked almost like disappointment. Strange. Something to think about later, maybe. 

James steers the conversation to other details. He’s assumed (correctly) that Robbie won’t want to come to midnight mass. He asks what time he should come over on Christmas Day morning, a question that has Robbie baffled for a moment, until he realises that he’s been assuming that James will come straight from midnight mass to his place—he wants James to stay the night so they can start Christmas Day together. A picture flashes into his head of his lanky sergeant sitting on his sofa wearing pyjamas, his feet bare and his hair bed-messy, eating porridge. It’s an image that fills him with affection. 

“Why don’t you come back to mine after mass—stay the night? That way, you won’t have to make your way across town on Christmas morning?”

James frowns. “It’d be almost one in the morning before I got to your place, sir. I wouldn’t want to disturb your sleep.”

“Bloody cheek! I’m not such an old codger that I have to be in me bed by 10!”

“Of course not, sir.”

Robbie can’t tell if his snapping has genuinely bothered James or not, so he tries again, softer this time. “We could have a nightcap together when you got in. We don’t have to be up at the crack of dawn the next day, do we?”

James ducks his head down, but Robbie can see the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. Good. 

“Thank you, sir. A post-mass nightcap would be very pleasant.”

By the end of the evening Robbie feels warm and contented, and it’s not just because he has a belly full of good food and he’s lounging in front of a fire. It’s only on his drive home though that it comes to him that James’ organising, his sergeant’s pride in being on top of all the Christmas planning, reminds him so much of Val. He smiles to himself in the car as he listens to the carols on the radio, feeling suffused with fondness for them both.


	3. Two Weeks Before Christmas

Robbie is outside the mortuary, waiting for Laura to finish a post-mortem. His phone goes—it’s James.

“Sergeant?”

“How do you feel about marzipan, sir?”

“James?” Robbie has no idea what his sergeant is on about—which to be honest is not a wholly unknown experience for him.

“I’m in the Covered Market and there’s a stall selling handmade stollen. They look very good, but I wasn’t sure how you’d be with marzipan.”

Robbie can’t help but smile. “I’m good with marzipan, Sergeant; thanks for asking. Very thoughtful.”

________________________

They’ve agreed just to exchange small presents—both are keen not to get caught up in the spending frenzy that seems to have Oxford in its grip. Robbie had been at a bit of a loss as to what to get James, aware that his sergeant has rather exacting standards with regards to, well, pretty much everything. But as he’s passing a music shop just off The Broad late one afternoon, he notices a rack of old sheet music labelled “Classical Guitar (absolutely no jazz!)”, outside the shop. He finds a couple of pieces by Paganini, who he remembers James mentioning with admiration a few times. When he takes the music into the shop to pay for it, the owner tells him that Paganini had been a good friend of the Shelleys and in fact had given Percy Florence Shelley a guitar. He shows Robbie a book that suggests Paganini had actually played one of the pieces Robbie’s picked out, to Mary, Percy and his wife, Jane, at their home. Robbie thinks that would tickle James, being a fan of the guys in the band and all, so he buys the book as well. 


	4. One Week Before Christmas

They don’t have an active case of their own in the week before Christmas so Robbie and James have been told by the Chief Super to assist another team who are investigating several—possibly linked—assaults, but are currently getting nowhere. There are multiple suspects and multiple potential witnesses, but so far little firm evidence, so James is back at the nick collating paperwork, and Robbie has been asked to re-visit the workplace of one of the victims (who’s currently still off work, recovering), in case anything of interest was missed the first time round. Personally, Robbie thinks it’s ridiculous having James stuck in the office shuffling papers when he’s perfectly capable of interviewing witnesses, but his opinion was not well received by the DI leading the investigation. 

It’s a crisp winter’s day—sunny but cold—and Robbie decides to walk through town rather than drive to the college IT support office where the victim—Anna Smyth—works. A colleague of the Anna’s—Grace Campbell—offers to show him round and answer his questions about Anna’s work life. Grace is a quietly spoken, rather nervous woman in her mid-fifties, who looks close to tears just hearing who Robbie is and why he wants to speak to her. She seems sure she won’t be able to help and is clearly distressed about that, but Robbie is gentle and reassuring with her. He accepts her offer of a cup of tea, and while she’s making it he quietly gets her talking about Anna without her even registering that that’s what’s happening. This calm, patient approach may take a bit longer than firing off a string of direct questions, but Robbie strikes gold. Where the detective who originally interviewed her had been stressed and impatient and had quickly dismissed Grace as a possible source of useful information, Robbie, over the course of half an hour, discovers that actually she has an excellent memory, rooted in her habit of observing the people around her rather than joining in with all the office nattering and gossiping. She also seems to be a shrewd judge of character. 

She brings a man to his attention—someone who visited Anna at work more than once in the weeks before she was assaulted. She seems a bit embarrassed about mentioning him to Robbie—it’s not as if she’s aware of anything specific that happened with this man, and she doesn’t even know his name, but there was something about him that Grace hadn’t liked—and nor had Anna, Grace seems to think, though she’d never said anything. And interestingly, the detailed description Grace gives Robbie is a pretty good fit for a suspect in one of the other assault cases. Even so, it’s a long shot—his taking seriously someone else’s hunch, but his gut says it’s worth chasing up. As he heads out of the college he phones in this bit of new information, then makes his way back through streets clogged with people dragging themselves from shop to shop, hoping for last minute Christmas present inspiration.

His route takes him past a department store, where a window display of artificial Christmas trees catches his eye for some reason. Some of them are outrageous; fifteen foot high and covered in garish ornaments and flashing lights. The prices are outrageous too. But there’s one to the left of the display that looks nice. It’s not so much the tree itself that appeals to him—it’s more the way it’s decorated with silver tinsel and baubles—the only colour coming from a rope of little lights, that don’t flash but instead give out soft patches of blue, green, yellow and red light. At the top of the tree is a simple silver star. 

Robbie’s just about to walk on when the image of James in the pub, looking disappointed, comes back to him. Robbie knows next to nothing about James’ childhood, and the little he does know suggests he had a pretty miserable time of it. Maybe they didn’t have a tree and decorations when he was a kid and he feels he’s missed out? Or maybe they did, and it’s one of the few good memories he has? Robbie sighs as he realises that it’s unlikely he’ll ever know. But then right on the back of that thought, it occurs to him that knowing in _that_ sense doesn’t actually matter. What matters is that James looked disappointed or sad or wistful at the thought of no Christmas tree—and that’s easily sorted. Without hesitation Robbie goes in, and five minutes later he’s in a queue to pay for all the decorations he’ll need to recreate the tree from the window. He’s decided if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it properly and buy a real tree. He can remember Val moaning about the needles dropping onto the carpet, but he always loved the smell of a proper tree, and the greengrocers that he passes on the drive home still has some nice ones lent against the wall outside the shop.

He makes his purchases and then heads back to work, depositing the various bags in the boot of his car before he goes up to the office. He hadn’t planned to keep the tree a surprise—he’d just thought there was no point carrying all the bags up to the office and then back down to the car at the end of the day. But as he’s striding along the corridor, Robbie’s suddenly clear that what he really wants to do is hide everything in his spare bedroom until after work on Christmas Eve, and then put the tree up in the living room and decorate it in time for James arriving after midnight mass. He feels happy just thinking about it, and something else as well—a bit giddy really—at the thought of planning a surprise for James. Ridiculous in a man of his age! Nonetheless, he walks into their office with a distinct grin on his face. James glances up from the piles of papers on his desk, looking like he’s lost a pound and found a penny.

“You’re looking cheerful, sir.” He doesn’t sound particularly thrilled about it.

“I wish I could say the same for you, Sergeant. Not found anything useful?”

“Not really. This lot,” he nods at the pile of suspect statements he’s been wading through, “truly are a wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

Robbie scowls automatically. “Spare me the Shakespeare, Sergeant.”

“Star Wars, actually, sir.”

He should know better than to ask by now, but he can’t quite get his head round the idea that James is quoting Star Wars at him. He wouldn’t put it past him to be taking the piss—quoting Macbeth and claiming it’s Darth Vader. “Go on then.”

James looks boyishly pleased at being encouraged. “It’s how Obi-Wan Kenobi described the spaceport Mos Eisley.”

“I wouldn’t have put you down as a Star Wars fan, James. Would have thought it’d be a bit uncultured for your tastes.”

James acknowledges the point with a sardonically raised eyebrow. “Well, I thought: if Alec Guinness could bring himself to act in it, surely I can bring myself to watch it.” 

Robbie plonks himself down in his chair, laughing and shaking his head. James can be the most infuriating sod at times, but he doesn’t half make him laugh. And he’s a damned good copper. He feels for him being given such uninspiring duties. 

“Cheer up, James. Almost Christmas, and with any luck we’ll be surplus to requirement round here before that.”

James sighs. “I’ll try.”

Robbie can’t believe his luck. He looks down at the file on his desk to hide his smile, then in his best Yoda voice exclaims:

“No! Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.”

James’ mouth twitches and then he laughs unguardedly as their eyes meet. _That’s more like it._


	5. Two Days Before Christmas

As predicted, over the next 24 hours the case is finally resolved satisfactorily, which means Robbie and James can finish on time and get to the supermarket to do their Christmas dinner shopping (except for the beef which James has ordered from his local butchers and will be picking up and dropping off at Robbie’s before work tomorrow.) James has made a shopping list and is going through it with Robbie before they set off, just in case he’s forgotten anything—which of course, he hasn’t. 

“Potatoes, sprouts, carrots, parsnips, Christmas pudding, brandy butter to go with the pudding, wine . . .” He doesn’t get any further because Robbie interrupts him, horrified.

“Brandy butter, Sergeant?! The only possible thing to have with Christmas pudding is custard! Christmas pudding and custard—they go together like . . . like . . .” He’s so agitated he can’t think of a suitable analogy.

“Like a horse and marriage?” James supplies, sporting an expression that couldn’t look more blank if he’d mainlined on Botox.

For a moment or two Robbie thinks he can hold it together, which given that the large gulp of lukewarm coffee he’d taken as James had made his ridiculous comment is still in his mouth, would definitely be for the best. He holds his breath, trying to get himself under control, but his shoulders and chest start to shake with bottled-up laughter and he suddenly, irreversibly loses it: he just has to breathe and swallow and release the tidal wave of hysteria that has built up inside him—which means that it’s his turn to spray drink out of his mouth and nose, and all over his computer keyboard. 

As bad luck and fateful cock-up would have it, it’s this precise moment that Jean Innocent chooses to pop her head round the door to chase Robbie about the end of month figures, which are due early because of Christmas. Not only is he not able to hand over said report, he can’t actually form coherent sentences, being occupied as he is with coughing up lung-material and turning a colour that can only be described as embolism red. It’s not a pretty sight.

Jean shoots a concerned and questioning look at James, who now has an air of emotionally unstable undertaker about him, as solemn and giggle are evidently fighting for control of his face. 

“I think it might be fur-balls, Ma’am.” Articulating this hypothesis proves to be James’ own downfall, as his apparent efforts to maintain control of his expression result in such grotesque facial contortions that he turns away and then immediately releases a series of kind of squeaking snorts. 

_Oh, Christ! James, that is not helping!_ Robbie, who has just begun to recover the capacity to breathe and has started dabbing ineffectually at his coffee-drenched chin with a tissue, completely loses it again at the sound of James’ high-pitched snorts. He’s back to being bent double and shaking, but now with the additional feature of tears streaming down his face. 

Jean stares at them, mouth clamped shut, arms folded tight across her chest. It must be obvious to her that she’s not going to get any sense out of either of them anytime soon, because she turns to head back to her office. But as Robbie launches into another bout of hacking coughs, she turns back towards the open office door and glares at James.

“If he ends up hospitalised, Hathaway, I’m holding you responsible. Shouldn’t you be doing the Heimlich manoeuvre on him or something?” And with that she’s gone. 

James, though by no means back to his usual calm and controlled self, clearly must think she has a point, because he closes the gap between himself and Robbie, who is still incapacitated. 

“Sir?’ 

_For God’s sake!_ He’s not having James do the Heimlich manoeuvre on him—he’d never let Robbie live it down! He waves a dismissive hand in James’ direction, but as he’s still bent over and having trouble getting a full breath, perhaps his protestations that he’s fine are a little less than convincing.

In the event, what James actually does is start thumping Robbie firmly on the back, over his lungs, which does in fact help, and Robbie’s breathing finally starts to ease. After a while James stops the thumping, but keeps his hand on Robbie’s back, rubbing soothing circles. It takes Robbie a minute to register that that’s what he’s doing—and another minute or more before he makes himself step away from the comforting sensations.

He arranges his face into the sternest expression he can manage under the circumstances and grumbles:

“Well, thanks very much for that, Sergeant,” but he just can’t keep a chuckle out of his voice, and he daren’t meet James’ eyes in case James manages to set him off yet again.

“You know me, sir; always happy to help,” and with that, James has apparently amused himself, and has to turn away yet again in an attempt to regain control. At this rate they’ll never get to the bloody supermarket. 

Finally, their hysteria seems to have dissipated and they walk to the car park together. Robbie risks running his mind back to what triggered their silly half hour in the first place: ah yes, brandy butter versus custard. Well that’s very easy to sort out.

“Custard or brandy butter. I’m not sure why this has to be an either/or situation, Sergeant. Seems to me, both is good.”

James raises an eyebrow. “An excellent, if mildly extravagant solution, sir.”

 _Extravagant?!_ Well, maybe that _is_ what counts as extravagance to a self-denying ex-priest?

Robbie chucks the car keys to James.

“Stick with me, Sergeant. I’ll show you extravagant. I know you’ll be shocked to hear it, but I’m thinking peas as well as carrots for this dinner.”


	6. Christmas Eve

As soon as Robbie gets home from work he feeds Monty then makes himself cheese on toast, planning his evening’s work while he’s eating. His first job is to get up in the loft to look for the old, wooden nativity scene that Val had put on display every Christmas of their marriage. She’d inherited it from her aunt, who’d had it from her own mother—Val’s grandmother. Retrieving it from its hiding place in the loft is going to be by far his most difficult task of the evening, in part because he has to do the ridiculous balancing on the top of the stepladder and swinging himself up through the hatch-door manoeuvre, which always makes him feel vulnerable and queasy as he feels the stepladder wobbling under his weight—particularly as he is inevitably alone in the house when he makes his occasional forays into the loft: no one to hold him steady; no one to help him up if he falls. 

Of course the other reason why he’s dreading looking for the nativity scene is that the loft holds so many memories of Val, of their life together. Although over the years since she died he’s managed to clear out many of her things, there’s still a lot that sits silently in the loft, wrapped in old sheets and newspapers, and the tender vestiges of his grief. He hasn’t been able to get rid of some of her clothes and jewellery, nor the toys and books she’d brought from her childhood into their life together as young adults. Actually, he doesn’t want to get rid of these things—it gives him an aching kind of comfort knowing they’re up in the roof space, providing their own kind of insulation. Doesn’t make it any easier to see them though, to move amongst them, never quite sure what’s going to ambush him.

In fact since Val died, the nativity scene has been one of those things that has been left sleeping in the dark loft, out of sight if not always out of mind. Each year it’s seemed too difficult to have it out on display, or to give it to Lyn. But since he decided to have James to stay and to do a tree for him, Robbie’s mind has gone to the nativity scene several times. He thinks James might like it, and picturing James examining it, picking up the tiny, hand-carved figures of shepherds and camels and weighing them carefully in his sensitive, capable hands, somehow finally makes it possible—even desirable—to bring the beautiful thing out of its hiding place and into the light again. 

So, he steals himself for the physical and emotional dangers of the job, and in the end it’s not too bad, supported as he is by the anticipation of James’ understated appreciation. Wrapped up with the nativity he also finds a string of small white fairy lights and a handful of tiny Christmas decorations in the shape of holly leaves and stars, that the kids made when they were little, so they also make the precarious descent down the stepladder. He breathes a sigh of relief when it’s done. Good—onto the fun stuff now.

He carries the tree in from the back garden, where it’s been sitting for the last couple of days, already wedged in a bucket of damp sand and rubble to keep it upright. Luckily it hasn’t rained for a day or two and the branches of the tree are dry, so he feels fine starting the job of swathing it in lights and tinsel and baubles. Val and the kids had always done the Christmas decorating—and had always made a beautiful job of it. They used to kept it secret from him which day they were going to do the tree, so he’d walk in from work one evening in mid-December to find the living room had been transformed into a warm, sparkly wonderland—it’d been one of his favourite parts of Christmas. As he’s struggling with the fiddly little threads on the baubles, trying to tie them onto branches in what he hopes is a suitably artistic arrangement, it dawns on him that he’s doing for James exactly what Val and the kids used to do for him. He perches on the arm of the sofa for a minute, feeling the impact of that—the significance of it making itself known in his chest. In the Lewis family you decorate Christmas trees and put out nativity scenes for the people you care about, for family, for the people you love. He takes in a deep breath. _Well, OK then._ It’s not like he hasn’t known at some level how important James is to him. He’s just never really articulated it in his mind. 

He smiles a little when it dawns on him that that’s another thing Val used to do for him—help him work out how he felt about things. He’d come home from some god-awful case, numb and leaden, or else blindly seething, and it was always Val who had the words, who knew how to talk things through till they got clearer, became more manageable. _Well, Love. For all his cleverness, James isn’t as good at that as you_. He shakes his head, chuckling softly. _Truth be told, he’s bloody awful at talking about things—makes me look like a bloody psychologist!_ He’s still smiling. _We seem to manage somehow though._

He shakes himself out of his reverie and finishes the decorating. He lays out the nativity scene and the kid’s decorations on the mantelpiece, and then winds the fairy lights from the loft through and around them. He grabs a chair from the kitchen to stand on and secures the star to the top of the tree. Finally, he switches on both sets of lights. He takes the chair back through to the kitchen and as he steps back into the lounge he turns the overhead light off, so he can survey his handiwork by the light of a hundred tiny stars. _Oh._ For a moment he’s breathless. He’s not much of a romantic, or given to gushing about works of art or beautiful scenery. But it _is_ beautiful; what he’s done is beautiful. He wishes Val was here to see, of course he does. But at the same time he’s happy—really happy—that James will be here soon with him; all six foot two of the sarky, clever git that he is.

Robbie fetches the presents he’s got for James and puts them under the tree, then he wanders into the spare room—James’ room—to check that everything’s in order. He’d put James’ overnight bag and guitar—that James delivered with the beef, at 7.30 this morning—in the bedroom, but now he picks up the guitar and brings it into the lounge, carefully propping it up against one of the armchairs. 

He checks his watch—can’t believe that it’s gone eleven already. Time for a cup of tea and a sit down then. Monty, who’s been watching the evening’s activities with an air of well-practiced disinterest from his favourite perch on the back of the sofa, hops down onto Robbie’s lap and kneads and turns until he’s got himself acceptably comfortable. Robbie idly scratches the cat behind his ears until a deep, rumbling purr fills the quiet. It occurs to Robbie as he starts to drift off, that sitting in the warm, velvety darkness, a contented cat draped over his knee, waiting for James to come home to him, is a pretty good way to start Christmas.

________________________

At ten to one the doorbell rings. Monty hops off his knee and Robbie goes to let James in, aware of a flutter of something in his chest—adrenalin, excitement maybe—and perhaps not purely the result of being snapped out of a doze by the bell, which had rung out loudly in the still of the night. James is standing on the doorstep, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat, and looking just a little hesitant, as if he’s still not quite convinced he’s welcome. Robbie beckons him in.

“Come in out of the cold, for heaven’s sake, man.”

He leads the way down the hall. “You go into the lounge and get yourself warm—I’ve just got something I need to finish in the kitchen.” Robbie knows that James’ usual habit is to follow him pretty much wherever he goes, but he’s confident James won’t go against a direct instruction from his governor. Robbie makes himself walk into the kitchen and busies himself with putting a bottle of single malt, a couple of glasses and a small jug of water on a tray. When he walks into the lounge with the tray in his hands, James is standing in the dark, still wearing his coat, gazing at the tree. He looks young and open and uncomplicatedly happy. _That’s my Christmas present right there,_ Robbie thinks to himself. 

He puts the tray down on the coffee table and then comes to stand by James. 

“What d’ya think?”

“It’s beautiful.” James doesn’t take his eyes off the tree, looks like maybe he never wants to stop looking at it.

Robbie’s throat feels tight with emotion. “Good. Glad you like it.” The words come out rough and warm.

“I thought you weren’t going to have a tree, sir.”

“A man can change his mind, can’t he?! Wouldn’t want to be completely predictable.”

James glances at him. “I don’t think there’s much danger of that.”

They look at the tree together for a while, shoulders just touching; no sound except for the clock on the mantelpiece, quietly marking the passing of time.

James clears his throat and swallows audibly. “I’ve never had a Christmas tree before. Not at home, anyway. They used to have one at school, in the grand hall—a tatty artificial thing they pulled out every year.” Then he’s stuttering, clearly flustered by what he’s just said. “Not, not that this is my home. Sorry. I just meant . . .” 

_Ah, lad._ Robbie’s heart hurts—literally hurts. He has an urge to wrap his arms round James, to pull him in tight against his chest and belly, to comfort him and keep him safe, like he used to do with the kids when they were upset or scared or feeling lost. But James is a grown man and that’s not quite how they do things, close as they are in their own way. Instead, he places his hand lightly against the middle of James’ back and just holds it there, feeling the contact between them come and go a little as James breathes.

“You’re all right. I knew what you meant.” He pauses for a second. “Course, my first choice would have been a tatty artificial one, but the shops were right out of them by the time I looked, so I had to make do with this thing.”

James doesn’t say anything, but Robbie feels the slight chuckle in the press of James’ back against his palm. They stand, just looking, for a while longer. Eventually Robbie shakes himself.

“Come on, get your coat off and have a drink.”

With some evident reluctance, James turns his back on the tree and shrugs out of his coat. Robbie pours him a measure of scotch and gestures to him to sit down. James doesn’t move but instead looks back and forth between the sofa and the tree. Of course! How can he have been so thick? The way the sofa is angled, they’ll only be able to see the tree out of the corner of their eyes.

“Shall we swing the sofa round? Be a shame to have gone to all this trouble and not to be able to see it.”

Even in the almost dark, Robbie can see James’ smile re-establish itself, and isn’t that a lovely sight? They move the sofa and the coffee table round and then settle themselves next to each other. Monty deigns to join them, curling himself up against Robbie’s thigh, on the opposite side to James. For a while they talk about the midnight mass and their plans for tomorrow, then lapse into a comfortable silence. 

After a while James says: “I noticed the nativity. It’s lovely. Very old—probably from the Holy Land, I think. I don’t remember seeing it before?” So Robbie finds himself telling James all about it—who Val got it from and the bittersweet meaning it holds for him. How he’s not been able to face having it on display before.

James takes a sip of his scotch. “But you’ve put it out this year.”

Robbie studies his own drink. “Aye. Somehow it just felt OK. I felt ready.”

“I’m glad, sir.” James’ face is angled away from him but Robbie can hear the warmth in his words. Without realising what he’s going to say, Robbie responds:

“You could call me Robbie. It’s long past time. Besides, half the time you only call me sir to wind me up or be horrible, anyway.”

James smirks in acknowledgement of his various uses of Robbie’s title, but he seems genuinely pleased with the invitation. “Thank you, sir. Robbie. Shi . . . sugar. Well, that’s going to be a difficult habit to break, apparently.”

They talk a bit more and then James puts his drink down and reaches for his guitar. He wanders from tune to tune for a while—mostly a mixture of carols and daft Christmas songs, including what sounds like a madrigalesque version of Jingle Bells. _Show off._ Robbie smiles and settles a little deeper into the sofa. The tune changes again, and then James starts to sing, so softly, so quietly, that it’s more a whisper, a prayer.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,  
Let your heart be light,  
Next year all our troubles will be  
Out of sight,

Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Make the yuletide gay  
Next year all our troubles will be  
Miles away,”

How is it possible to feel so sad and so happy at the same time? Robbie has no idea. His heart is aching, but beating strongly in his chest. He sighs, needing to do something with the emotion welling up in him. He can’t remember the last time he felt this . . . full. Full of feeling, full of life.

“Once again as in olden days  
Happy golden days of yore  
Faithful friends who are dear to us  
Will be near to us once more  
Someday soon, we all will be together  
If the fates allow  
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow  
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”

James carries on quietly playing variations on the tune while Robbie is flooded with anticipation—flutterings and fizzings of adrenalin again—despite the soothing quality of James’ playing, of his presence. He can’t for the life of him make sense of what he thinks is going to happen: they don't need to go anywhere, there’s nothing that has to be done, no one else is going to arrive, so what? What is it? Then it dawns on him. If James was a woman, this is how he’d feel if . . . if he wanted something to happen. 

_Shit. Really?_ Well, maybe. He knows James, trusts him, likes him. And in a funny sort of way, he’s comfortable with him physically. They always sit squashed up against each other when they’re down the pub or watching telly . . . and though he’s never thought about it before, obviously he likes that or he wouldn’t keep doing it, would he? But that’s not the same as attraction, is it? Is he seriously thinking he fancies James all of a sudden, out of the blue? Well, he can see that James is a good-looking bloke, but you don’t need to fancy someone to be able to see that, do you? Just thinking the words “You fancy a bloke” seems surreal, unbelievable. But there’s no denying that every time the thought pops into his head that something—a kiss, a cuddle—might happen tonight, his heart lurches and his breathing quickens. 

So if he’s honest with himself, it looks like the real question is not so much does he want something to happen with James (whatever that might be), but rather, should he do something about it? And of course, would James want him to do something about it? Well, James is sitting as close to him as usual, with his leg pressing lightly against Robbie’s own, and he’s basically serenading him, so that looks promising. But you can’t really tell with James, and God knows they’ve had some spectacularly uncomfortable and unilluminating conversations about sexuality, and Robbie has no wish to revisit them tonight. He probably wouldn’t get a straight answer from James anyway, even if he could think of a question he actually wanted to ask. Nah, talking isn’t what’s needed here.

Eventually James stops playing, leans forward, and carefully places his guitar on the floor along the side of the sofa. _Well then. Time for a bit of courage; a step into the unknown._ Robbie moves over a few inches, so that when James leans back again, his right side presses firmly against Robbie’s left, their bodies in contact from shoulder to knee. James stills for a moment and Robbie can’t breathe, but then James sinks down further into the sofa until he’s half sitting, half lying, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and his head resting lightly against Robbie’s shoulder. 

Neither of them says a word. Robbie glances down at James and sees that he’s gazing at the softly lit tree—and has a look of utter contentment on his face—which means that now Robbie can’t stop grinning like a fool. He can smell James’ hair, feel it against his cheek. He can feel the press and fall away as James breathes next to him, against him. It’s lovely. How can something he’s never wanted before, something he’d never even considered as a possibility before, be so ridiculously lovely? He has the urge to rub his nose against the top of James’ head but isn’t sure whether to act on it. He doesn’t know quite what this is, or how much he wants. And he really doesn’t know what James wants. But he does know that this moment—just as it is—is perfect, even if this is all there is. So he lets himself relax and just feel the sheer animal joy of having a warm, friendly body—James’ warm, friendly body—pressed against him in the dark.

But then James is moving. He sits up, has the last sip of his scotch and puts his glass down on the coffee table. He turns towards Robbie and looks at him so intently that Robbie feels heat flooding into his cheeks, and without intending to, he closes his eyes. He feels James shift position, and then James’ lips lightly brush against his cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Robbie.” James’ voice is a low rumble that Robbie can feel in his guts, in his groin—which is terrifying. And fantastic. Instinctively Robbie turns towards the kiss, towards James, and so the next kiss falls softly on his lips. It’s not much more than a brief press of their lips together—but it’s everything. The scotch on James’ breath, the yielding of James’ soft lower lip as he presses against Robbie, the look of utter concentration on James’ face when Robbie opens his eyes because he just has to see, has to see the evidence for himself that this is real—it’s all perfect.

There’s nothing frenzied about the kiss; there’s just James’ lips against Robbie’s, rubbing and caressing, and then— _Oh Christ_ —Robbie feels the tip of James’ tongue, and with his heart hammering in his chest so loudly that James must surely be able to hear it, Robbie opens to him. James slides a hand round the back of Robbie’s head to hold him in place, and slides his tongue between Robbie’s lips. And it’s something to do with the size of James, the strength of his hand holding Robbie still, the deliberate, slow push of his tongue, but suddenly all Robbie can think is: _There’s a bloke kissing me!_ The thought is astonishing and disconcerting and thrilling all at once. And even as all this is going on in his mind, he says to himself: _Don’t be so bloody dramatic, yer daft sod! It’s James. It’s just James._ Though his cock, which is filling a little more with each lazy slide of James’ tongue against his, doesn’t seem to think that there’s anything “just” about what they’re doing.

James pulls away, kisses Robbie gently on the cheek once more, and then arranges them so that Robbie’s arm is round James’ shoulder, as he snuggles into Robbie’s side and sighs. Robbie can’t quite see what he’s done to deserve all this—a sleepy, purring cat on one side of him and a contented, sighing James on the other—but hell, he’s grateful. He can see James has closed his eyes. Maybe it’s not just Monty who’s sleepy? Not surprising really—it must be 2.30 at least.

“OK, James?”

James yawns and burrows even closer into Robbie’s embrace. 

“I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.”

Trust the clever sod to answer with some quote or other even when he’s half asleep, when a simple “yes” would have sufficed. A simple “yes” wouldn’t be James though, would it? Robbie kisses the top of James’ head. 

“Happy Christmas, James.”

**Author's Note:**

> James' quote at the end of the story is from Percy Bysshe Shelley's play "The Cenci."


End file.
